


novacane

by natalie_nebula



Series: weekend memories [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 17:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalie_nebula/pseuds/natalie_nebula
Summary: "Y'know you can tell me anything, right bud?""Yeah, I know Buck."While Bucky is off fighting the good fight, Steve finally finds the courage to confront his own demons.





	novacane

**Author's Note:**

> Y'know how I said I was gonna make this a series? Well it's happening. This is a one-shot sequel to "a day in the life of Steve Rogers" (my endgame fix-it). This can technically be read alone but it'll make more sense if you read that one first. More of these one-shots are in the works (including more Sam). Also, Far From Home hasn't come out yet as of me writing this, and I don't know what his role will be in that movie, but in this universe, Nick Fury rebuilt SHIELD and it has the same name and functions as before (just slightly smaller). (Also also, all the OCs I work into my stories will be black women because I said so, that's just how it's gonna be). Enjoy <3
> 
> Follow me on twitter? I guess? @budgetzendaya

“Bye, love you!”

“Love you too—” The door slammed closed and then, silence. Suddenly, Steve was hyper-aware of how large and empty their house was. He shuffled his feet and the wood floor creaked and stretched underneath him. He stood there in the foyer for a few more seconds, watching the sunlight shine in streaks through the windows above the door, listening to cars approach and then speed off into the distance. The grandfather clock in the living room kept on ticking and Steve felt it behind his ears.

Bucky’s mission was supposed be long—about a week—and that was just about all Steve knew about it. They told him less and less as time went on. He wasn’t quite sure if it was for security reasons or if they wanted him to _detach_ a little more.

Steve made his way into the kitchen on autopilot and started washing the dishes from breakfast. He had NPR on his iPad in the background, but he wasn’t listening, just scrubbing the inside of Bucky’s coffee mug over and over again until he heard the ceramic start to squeak. He rinsed it out and set it down to dry, tossing the worn-out sponge onto the counter. The sink was still on. He leaned over the basin, palms braced on the edge; the sound of the rushing water was deafening.

“14 dead after a tragic plane crash off the coast of—”

Steve reached up and shut the water off with both hands, gripping the taps with white knuckles.

“Turn off NPR.”

The muffled voices disappeared and he was alone again in their big empty house. 

 

* * *

 

“Hello, yes, is this—uh, is this Dr. Johnson?” 

“Yes, this is her speaking. Are you calling to set up an appointment?”

“Uh, um—yes, yes I am.”

Her voice was soft, and light, like the hummingbirds that would flit about the garden in the afternoon, carefree and weightless.

“Alright, well, I’m a little busy at the moment, but we can meet early Thursday morning. Nine alright with you?”

“Uh, yes that’s fine.” Steve’s hand was trembling as he pressed the phone to his cheek.

“Perfect. And, uh, what name should I put down for the appointment?”

Steve’s other hand gripped the edge of the comforter, wrinkling it. “Um… Rogers, Steve Rogers.”

She paused. 

“Alright then, thank you for calling, Steve.” Realization. “Just bring your insurance information with you on Thursday and we can get started. Sound good?”

“Yes, Doctor. Thank you.”

“No problem, have a nice day.”

Steve hung up. He threw the phone to the other end of the bed like it had burnt him. 

 

* * *

 

That evening, Steve brought his dinner out into the garden. It was finally summer in New York. The air was warm and full, like a thick blanket, and the sky was dripping pinks and oranges into deeper blues as the sun set below the tree in the corner of their backyard. Way back then, they had no idea it was caused by pollution, but at least the sunset was still just as beautiful as the day he’d been born.

He sat curled up under a throw blanket in this big round canvas chair that Pepper had bought for them. It was one of the many things in their house that reminded him how small he was now. He pushed the fruit and chunks of oatmeal around the bowl in his hand, gently poking them with his spoon, listening to the wind and the sound of neighbors’ porch doors closing shut. A strong gust came and he tucked his feet under his legs, wrapped in a pair of wool socks. 

_Never thought the future would be so quiet._

 

* * *

 

Just as he was settling into bed, his phone buzzed.

 

_1 new message from Buck_

 

_good news! be home early_

 

another buzz—

 

_gnite bud <3_

 

Steve held the phone tight in his hand for a long moment, reading those seven words over and over, letting them bounce around in his skull. When he finally set it down on the bedside table, he fell asleep with Bucky’s voice echoing between his ears.

 

* * *

 

Tuesday came and went, and Wednesday did too. No news from Bucky or SHIELD or anyone.

Steve kept himself occupied cleaning the house over and over again (he never got anything done when Bucky was home). He went to two art classes. The kids were learning about the color wheel and Steve ended up with some stubborn paint stains on his hands… andhis pants… _and_ his shoes. It was good though. He figured, _if I can just keep moving…_

He woke up at five on Thursday morning. This wasn’t abnormal for him—he had been in the army after all—but he couldn’t run like he used to. Instead, he took a long, hot shower, let the sound of rushing water fill his ears. When he got out, it was quarter to six and his skin was bright red. 

He fixed himself a bowl of cereal and watched the sun rise from his studio. Beams of light slowly drifted up the walls, landing on his current work in progress: a painting of the old facility upstate at sunset, the huge “A” reflected over the purple water. He hadn’t lost _all_ his superpowers along with the serum. Still had his photographic memory—that wasn’t Captain America, just Steve Rogers. 

He sat there drifting in and out of sleep until 8:30, when his phone alarm went off and brought him back to reality. He took a deep breath and looked at his painting one last time before taking the empty cereal bowl to the sink and setting it down. He figured he’d wash it when he got back. 

 

* * *

 

“Dr. Johnson will see you now, sir.”

Steve’s head jolted up from where he’d been staring at his hands folded in his lap.

Dr. Johnson’s office was small, one of a series of offices tucked away in a converted brownstone, much like his own house.

A tall, dark-skinned woman with short, curly hair and a grey cashmere sweater opened the door and welcomed him in. “Right this way, Steve—is it okay if I call you that?” They shook hands, brief and firm.

“Yes, thank you, Doctor.”

“Oh, April is just fine. Go ahead and have a seat, make yourself comfortable.” She gestured to a deep brown tufted-leather chair. The office was plain for the most part: white walls, a standard wall clock ticking away in the corner, just like the grandfather clock in Steve’s living room. Her bookshelves were packed with texts Steve couldn’t identify without his glasses on. The window behind her desk faced the morning sun. 

April sat down across from him and set a notebook and a pen on the table beside her before turning to face him again. “So, Steve, what brings you to therapy today?”

Suddenly, Steve felt like there was a hummingbird trapped inside his ribcage.

“A, um, a friend of mine suggested it, uh, a long time ago, actually just… didn’t get around to it ‘till now.”

April nodded knowingly.

“Well, this time can be lots of different things for you, whatever you need it to be. Is there anything in particular you’d like to talk about?”

“I dunno, I—” Steve paused, folding his hands in his lap again. He held his breath while he thought about what he wanted to say next. “I assume you’re aware of who I am, what I—what I _used to do_ —”

April let out a gentle laugh, “Yes, I figured as much.”

Steve continued, “I thought—well, see, everything used to move so _fast_ , y’know? And I never really had too much time to think about stuff before the next fight rolled around. And now that I’m—“ Steve looked down at himself and gestured to his body, “I have a lot more time to think about things.”

_My thoughts scare me and all too often I spend my days alone with them._

April had leaned in while Steve was speaking. He exhaled as she straightened up again. “Well, Steve, I’ve spoken to a lot of vets about this before—”

“So I heard, you come highly recommended.”

April smiled softly at him. “They describe a general feeling of anxiety about being home. Y’know, when you’re in the thick of it, there’s no time to think, only act. But when you come home—“

“There’s nothing protecting you from your own mind.”

April hummed in agreement. There was a beat of silence as the clock ticked on in the corner. Then: “You and Captain Wilson are close, yes?”

“Yes,” Steve nodded.

“And of course, Sergeant Barnes—”

Steve felt the weight of the phone in his pocket.

“Uh, yeah, Sam and Buck, we’re all close with each other.”

Steve found it troubling to keep eye contact with the doctor.

“Have you spoken to them about any of this? About any of the anxieties you may be feeling? Any traumatic memories you might be carrying with you?”

Steve squeezed his right hand into a fist at his side. “I, uh, I used to, with Sam. He used to run veteran’s group therapy—that’s actually how we met— but, uh, not recently, no.”

“Why did you stop?”

Steve remembered cold, dark nights on the run, holed up in crappy motel rooms and bundled up in blankets with holes in them. He and Sam used to tell each other everything. One night, when they were in Tunisia, lying still beneath the light of the moon peaking through the curtains, he’d told Steve about Riley. 

“Well, ever since I handed him the shield, I figured he had enough on his plate, y’know? I mean, I think I know better than anyone how tough that job can be on somebody.”

April nodded again, “And how does it make you feel when they go out on missions together?”

Steve bit his lip.

_It feels like I’m sitting on top of a bomb, listening to it tick away, just like these damn clocks._

“I mean, it’s always hard to see them go, but they work well together and they do a lot of good. They trust each other, and I trust them both too.”

“Good, good.” For the first time since their session had started, April had picked up the notebook and was jotting things down. 

As she was writing, Steve was standing in the kitchen of a tiny Brooklyn apartment. It was 1943. He was holding Bucky’s crumpled draft notice in his hands. 

 

* * *

 

Steve came home to the sound of rushing water coming from the kitchen.

“Stevie?”

Of course Buck had heard him come in. He shut the door and quickly toed-off his loafers. He dashed into the kitchen, sliding a little in his socks. He found Bucky at the sink, doing Steve’s dishes from breakfast.

Steve smiled as he rounded the island, “You’re home early.”

“Yeah, just like I _told_ you, punk. Thought you’d be here to greet me.”

“You didn’t tell me _when_ , Buck, just that you’d be home early.” Steve leaned in as Bucky dried off his hands. He wrapped his arms around Steve’s shoulders and they swayed against each other as Bucky held Steve’s body tight against his chest.

“Figured you wouldn’t be up to much on a Thursday morning.” Bucky gently rubbed his right hand against the back of Steve’s head before resting his chin on top of it. “Where ya been, bud?”

Steve tensed against Bucky’s chest. “Oh, just uh… doctor’s appointment.” As soon as he said it, he knew it was a mistake. Bucky drew back and looked Steve in the eye.

“Are you _sick_ , Stevie? What’s going on?”

Steve sighed. He focused on Bucky’s chin. “I’m fine, Buck. Just a 24 hour stomach bug. Wanted to make sure it wasn’t anything serious so I popped over to the clinic, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

Steve raised his voice a little, “Yes, Buck, I’m _fine._ ”

“Alright, alright, I get it.” Bucky pulled him in again. “You know I worry about you, bud.” He mumbled into Steve’s hair.

Steve responded so quietly he wasn’t even sure if Bucky heard him.

_Yeah, Buck, I worry about you too._

 

* * *

 

The next few days blurred together, just like they always did. There was an unspoken sense of ephemeralness to everything they did together, like their whole life with each other existed in between the missions, in little pockets of warmth and light. But the other shoe always had to drop.

They chased the days away with cooking and napping. Steve would paint and Bucky would read, sometimes aloud.

Occasionally, a moment of intimacy would spark into existence, like lighting a match. It was still new to both of them, this idea that steveandbucky was _something,_ different than it used to be. That the warm gravity that had always existed between them—no matter how far apart they’d gotten, across space and time— had drawn them close enough that they could finally touch each other, in all those new and exciting ways Steve could have only dreamed of before now.

Most nights, though, they’d just curl up in bed together like they always had, Steve pressed tight against the firm wall of Bucky’s chest, melting into him like it was the winter of ’38 all over again and they had no heat at night except for each other. 

Two weeks later, the night before Bucky’s next assignment, they were just like this, laying in comfortable silence, when Bucky leaned in close to Steve’s ear: “Y’know you can tell me anything, right bud?”

Steve didn’t move, just kept staring at the light seeping in from under the bathroom door.

“Yeah, I know Buck.”

Silence.

Then, “I love you.”

“Love you too, Buck.”

“G’nite.” Bucky pressed a soft, tender kiss to Steve’s right cheek, then settled down and rested his head back on the pillow. Steve stayed completely still.

“G’nite, Buck.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, as soon as Bucky left, Steve called Dr. Johnson again. He was in her office that afternoon. 

“So—” she started, putting the cap back on her pen and gently setting it aside, “You’re back. What’ve you been up to since we last saw each other?”

Steve tapped his fingers against the side of his leg and looked out the window behind her.

“Well, uh, Bucky was home early from his last mission, so we spent most of our time together before he left for his next one.”

“And that was?”

“This morning.”

“Hm.” Steve could hear the clock ticking again, like it had suddenly gotten louder. 

“How do you usually feel when he’s about to leave?”

Steve gulped.

“Well, I’m not gonna lie to you, it’s not easy—”

“I don’t want you to feel as though you have to lie to me, Steve, but you can omit anything you feel you have to.”

Steve met April’s eyes again as she spoke. Her face was soft, but serious. She meant what she’d said.

“Ok, um…” He looked down and flattened his palms over his lap. “Well, it’s always really good when he comes home, at least at first. There’s always a sense that there’s a time limit on us being together, and then, once he gets his new assignment—” Steve’s mind brought him back to dinner two nights ago, right after Bucky had gotten off the phone with Nick Fury. They’d sat and eaten in silence. “—the energy, it’s different. We don’t talk as much. And then when he leaves, I get this tightness in my chest and it’s difficult to fall asleep the first couple of nights I’m alone—”

Steve’s breath caught in his throat, like the hummingbird in his chest had woken up and was trying to escape. He’d said too much.

“Do you and Bucky live together?”

Dr. Johnson’s pen and paper were in her hand, but she’d stopped writing as she waited for him to respond.

“Uh, yes, we do.”

April set the pen down on the table. 

“Like I said before, Steve, you can omit anything you don’t feel comfortable sharing, and anything you do share stays in this room, alright?”

Bucky and Steve’s… relationship with each other was by no means public, and he certainly wasn’t ready for it to be anytime soon.

“Uh, yes, thank you April.”

She smiled, “Just doing my job.”

The tension in the room had been lifted. For the first time, Steve smiled back.

“Meet again next week, Steve?”

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

Steve slept easy that night. And the night after that. But three days after his appointment with April, just as he was about to drift off, his phone buzzed.

 

_2 new messages from Nick Fury_

 

_barnes with SHIELD medical_

_condition stable but come ASAP_

 

Steve stopped breathing, and he didn’t start breathing again until he was getting out of the black car Fury had sent, stepping into SHIELD’s private Manhattan medical center. 

The director was waiting for him at the door. He could tell Nick was taken aback by his appearance—he’d thrown a jacket on over his pajamas and slipped on his loafers before running out the door—but he didn’t say anything, just silently led him inside, up the elevator and down the hall. 

They stopped at a private corner room at the end of a long hallway. The door was slightly ajar; Steve could hear a heart monitor steadily beeping.

Fury let out a deep sigh and rested his hands on his hips. “His condition is stable,” he spoke much softer than usual, “but he’ll probably be asleep for a little while. Just thought you might wanna be here with him when he wakes up.”

Steve looked into Fury’s eye. He didn’t know how much the director knew, but he nodded “Thanks.” 

“Anytime, Rogers, anytime.” 

Steve stepped into the room slowly. The first thing he saw was Bucky’s chest moving up and down. _Thank God, he’s breathing._ His entire right arm and leg were both bandaged up, along with his abdomen, and there was an IV in his arm dripping in God knows what type of super-painkillers his body needed. Steve sat down in the chair between the bed and the IV stand. His eyes scanned over Bucky’s face. It was soft, relaxed. _He looked young._ Steve smiled as he felt a deep ache settle in his chest. He reached out and held onto Bucky’s right hand, which was resting at his side. He gently rubbed circles into the skin with his thumb.

_It’s gonna be ok, Buck._

 

* * *

 

“Steve?”

Steve’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of his name. He could feel warm sunlight on his face, and someone grabbing onto his hand.

“How ya feelin’, Buck?”

Steve couldn’t help but go all soft when he saw Bucky smilin’ up at him from the hospital bed, his long brown hair resting around his head on the pillow like a halo.

“Eh, I’ve felt worse.”

Steve let out a laugh—and felt a tear roll down his cheek. “I’m happy you’re awake, Buck.”

“Yeah, me too, ‘cuz you certainly weren’t a second ago.”

Steve squeezed Bucky’s hand. “What time is it?”

“Around 7:30, unless the clock in here’s wrong.” Now Bucky was the one rubbing circles into Steve’s palm.

“Mind telling me what happened, Sergeant?” 

He chuckled, “Oh, you mean these?” He gestured at the bandages all over his skin. “Got caught in an explosion, third degree burns on the whole right side of my body. Missed my face, though.”

“Wouldn’t wanna screw up that ugly mug even more, huh?”

“Shut up, punk.”

They both laughed, and then squeezed tighter.

“Will it heal?”

“Yeah, ‘doctors said it would be back to normal in about a week, but I gotta rest up until then, alright?”

“You always needed that extra beauty sleep, huh, Buck.”

“And what, you don’t?”

They weren’t in the hospital anymore. They weren’t even in their brownstone in Brooklyn. It was 1941, and they’d just gotten home from a baseball game, sitting on the fire escape, eating ice cream cones, dangling their legs between the wrought iron bars, kicking and laughing and licking sticky streaks of melted vanilla off their fingers. 

“Can I ask you something?”

Steve paused. “Sure thing, Buck.”

“Where were you that morning? When I came back early?” 

Steve’s hand stopped squeezing. “Whaddaya mean, Buck?”

He smirked. “You never tell me when you get sick. I always have to force it out of you. That’s how I knew you were lying.”

It was quiet for another moment. Bucky kept on rubbing.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier, if you knew?”

“Figured you’d tell me later, on your own, and I didn’t wanna spoil the moment.”

Steve felt a darkness forming in the pit of his stomach.

“Well—well, what if—” he started stuttering, “what if this was somehow worse, what if— _what if you didn’t come back, Buck? Wouldn’t you wanna know?_ ”

“Stevie…” Bucky shushed him as he placed his metal hand on top of Steve’s hand, the one he was already holding. It was so much smaller now than it once was. “It’s alright, bud, I’m here now. Can you tell me?”

Steve looked down into his lap, then closed his eyes and breathed in.

_Why is this so hard?_

“I was in therapy.”

Bucky was quiet for a long moment. That clock ticking sound started itching at the back of Steve’s ears, but Bucky’s firm grip kept him grounded.

When Steve finally had the strength to look back up, Bucky was smiling.

“That’s—that’s good, Stevie. That’s real good. I’m proud of you, bud.”

Steve felt a warm flush come to his face.

_Why so shy all of a sudden, Rogers?_

“Uh, thanks Buck.”

“Is it helping?”

He nodded, slowly. “Yeah, I think so.” Steve wasn’t sure if Bucky knew what exactly he needed help with, hell, Steve didn’t even really know that himself. “Hey, can I ask _you_ something?”

“Sure thing, bud.” 

“Did—did you do therapy? In Wakanda?”

He grinned. “Yeah, for a little while. Fell out of it after we came back to New York. Couldn’t really find the time, y’know?”

Bucky still had both of his hands wrapped around Steve’s—soft and gentle, like how you’d hold a moth caught between your fingers.

“Did it help you?”

“Yeah, I’d say so. I mean, wouldn’t be here if it hadn't done _something,_ right?” He let out a chuckle and Steve smiled back at him. 

The sound of the clock melted into the wall, and the steady beep of the heart monitor disappeared into the shadows at the corner of the room. Now, Steve could hear sparrows chirping outside the window.

_The hummingbird was set free._

That warm beam of sunlight that had first greeted him now stretched overtop Bucky’s bandaged leg, illuminating the white against the exposed pink of his skin. Steve reached over with his left hand and placed it on top of Bucky’s. 

“Let’s get you home.”


End file.
